For You (There's Nothing I Wouldn't Do)
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: "What are you going to do, Lydia?" Yet, the answer was simple enough to Lydia Martin. She was going to get Stiles back. *season 3B spoilers, hurt!Lydia, Stydia, possessed!Stiles, slight season 3 AU*
1. In the Dark

_**Author's Note: **__This will probably be AU by the time this season ends, but this is just one way that I can picture it turning out. I'm new to this fandom, so forgive me if anyone seems terribly out of character. Spoilers for season three. Please enjoy!_

* * *

"_I will fight your fight_

_I will hold you tight_

_And I won't let go."_

—_Rascal Flatts, "I Won't Let Go"_

* * *

"What are you going to do, Lydia?"

Alison had asked her that, eyes wide and misted over with unshed tears. In that dim hospital room with the monitors that slowly beeped and the chairs designed for long vigils, her best friend had met her gaze, clearly about to splinter into a million pieces. It was one thing to be hurt yourself in a fight.

It was another to watch someone you cared about go down. For Alison, seeing Isaac being injured so critically had almost done in her already fragile mental state. And for the strawberry blonde girl that considered herself a member of the pack, there was only one thing that could've made this already awful situation even worse.

Stiles—her sarcastic, caring, adoring Stiles had wrapped one hand around the werewolf's neck and nearly snapped it in half before Scott had gotten the situation in hand. Stiles had fled; the twins in hot pursuit. Isaac had been rushed to the hospital and as Lydia let her eyes glance around the room, she could see most of the pack was here as well. Scott—so old, so burdened; when had he been forced to grow up so quickly?—in the corner, eyes trained on the floor. Kira, by his side, rubbing comforting circles on his back. Derek leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, gaze dark and deadly and Mrs. McCall, fluttering in and out whenever she could, desperately wanting to do something.

"Lydia?" Alison's grip had been tight around her hand, almost painful and Lydia knew why. She was afraid to lose someone else she cared about. In their already messed up world with creatures that went bump in the night, they had come to rely upon each other.

They were a family—a messed up, crazy, happy family.

"It's okay," Her voice had come out a whisper, but it did the trick. The soothing tone gave Alison enough comfort to get her to release her friend's hand. Lydia kneeled down to meet the hunter's frightened eyes. "Alison, I promise that it will be okay." She had grinned and she watched with relief as some of the tension left her friend's frame.

"Lydia?" Alison started, clarity suddenly alighting her eyes. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to bring him back."

* * *

She didn't have very many memories of third grade.

She hadn't had many friends back then. She'd been the smart one—able to do 5th grade math and read at a 6th grade level—but her mother had her held back in the hopes of preventing her daughter from being a social outcast. Anyways, what Lydia remembered vividly was the day someone stole her Hello Kitty stuffed animal. In hindsight, it probably had been a blessing in disguise as she had grown too attached to it, but at the time, it was the end of the world for the young girl. The teacher checked the lost and found, but to no avail. Placing a hand on the little girl's shoulder, she tried to console her.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. These things happen."

The next day at school, Stiles appeared at her desk and silently handed her new a stuffed animal, the exact same kind as her old one.

"I-I h-heard yours was lost." He mumbled by way of explanation.

"Thank you."

That was the first time Stiles had ever grinned at her.

* * *

"You should leave," Stiles—not her Stiles though, she could see that—told her as she closed the metal door behind her. It closed with a clang and as she walked into the abandoned warehouse, she forced herself to remain objective. "Unless you have a death wish—?"

"Stiles." She called out, unafraid. The creature inhabiting him rolled it's eyes and for a second, Lydia allowed her mind to flash back to all the times he had done that before. When had she allowed herself to care so much for him? What happened to Lydia Martin—the cold, beautiful girl that every girl wanted to be and every boy wanted to date? When had she allowed her walls to fall?

When had she fallen in love with Stiles?

"Not that again," It sighed and she could still see the bloodstains from the previous fight on his gray shirt. "I told you; Stiles is no more." He grinned maliciously. "Now, it's just me."

"I know you're there, Stiles." She kept her voice even; her heels clicking on the floor as she made her way towards him. The place was empty—just empty boxes would bare witness to what she was prepared to do tonight. "I'm going to pull you back."

"Oh, really?" He sauntered towards her until there was only a fraction of space between the two. It chilled her to see his face, so twisted beyond the Stiles she knew. "Tell me something, Lydia." He leaned in, so that their noses almost brushed. "What are you going to do?" She gathered up her courage and smiled up at the monster inhabiting Stile's body. The dagger she had hidden within her sleeve slipped out ever so much.

"Get rid of you."

* * *

She used to have nightmares where she would spend the whole night running. She wasn't sure if she was being chased or if she was trying to catch someone—it never mattered—but she would always wake up and for a split second think she still had to keep spiriting.

"So," Stiles asked her one day—back when she was still unaware of their secret; of who she was—after he had overheard her explain it to Alison. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know." Lydia mumbled, wishing he would go away so that she wouldn't have to discuss this with him. Back then, she was still putting up a façade. She didn't like to reveal her faults to anyone, even to close friends.

"No, that's not the right answer." Stiles informed her, taking a bite of his sandwich.

"Excuse me?" Her eyebrow rose; she could feel anger starting to burn slowly within her. Hell hath no fury like Lydia Martin.

"See, the Lydia I know," He paused with his sandwich, putting it down on his tray. His eyes locked onto hers and for the first time, she felt compelled to hold it. The lunchroom seemed to quiet down, as if everyone was waiting to hear what he would say. It was very much like one of those romantic comedies that she binged watch whenever she felt upset. "She would fight." He beamed at her. "She wouldn't let something like a bad dream stop her."

"Is that so?" She challenged. "You're sure?"

"Of course." He answered without hesitation. Strangely enough, she felt vaguely reassured by his comments.

That was the last time she had that particular nightmare.

* * *

"You'll die."

She was dripping blood and had numerous bruises from where Stiles—no, the monster's hands had gotten her. She had managed to keep Stiles relatively in one piece, only using the dagger for defense. Still, she could see the writing on the wall.

She was losing. Badly.

"Stiles." Her voice cracked, tears misting over her vision.

"He can't hear you." The creature taunted. "The Stiles you knew is gone!"

Maybe it was foolish, coming here alone. It probably wasn't the logical move, but when had she ever been logical when it came to Stiles? If she made it through this, she would agree to go out with him. She would finally give him the attention that he deserved ever since that day in the third grade. In a burst of energy, his hand wrapped around her neck, claws digging into her skin. She coughed, breath leaving her.

"Ut pagina mundi," She whispered, the ritual coming to her mind now. The one that required her blood as well as his, both of which now covered the floor. The creature's head turned to the side, confused. His grip tightened and tears sprung to her eyes. Still, she kept going. "qui exterminant revocare vos."

"A banishment spell?" He seemed genuinely impressed. "You won't—"

"Ut pagina mundi—" His hand on her neck began to shake and he hissed in frustration. On the warehouse floor, the blood began to boil, bubbles beginning to form in it. It was grotesquely beautiful, but more importantly, it meant it was working.

"Stop!" He released her and she fell to the floor, gasping for breath and rubbing her neck. She couldn't stop yet though, not when she was so close!

"Qui exterminant revocare vos." Stiles' body began to tremble, almost as if a current was running through him. Her body screamed for her to stay down, but she shakily pushed herself up. Blood dripped from her open wounds. Pitch black eyes locked onto her and before she could react, her dagger was plunged into her chest.

"You want me dead!" It roared as it pressed the weapon in deeper. "Then, we'll die together!"

_If you die, I will literally lose my freakin' mind! _

She was going to disappoint him. She never wanted to do that again.

_Death doesn't happen to you, Lydia. It happens to everyone around you!_

With a shaky hand, she gripped the handle of the dagger and smirked tiredly at the creature.

"Go to Hell."

She watched as it died, as it screamed and was ripped out of Stiles' body by some powerful force. Gracelessly, Stiles' body—finally, he was back—fell onto the floor, unconscious.

He was back.

That was her last thought before the darkness took her.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__For anyone curious, the Latin translated to roughly, "As your link to this world, I banish those that would use you." Next chapter up soon! Please review if you have a second. Thanks! _


	2. And When I Awoke

_**Author's Note: **__I'm glad people are enjoying this story. Here's the next chapter!_

* * *

"_You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."_

—_Megan Chance_

* * *

Her dreams never have been peaceful, not since she was little. Her first nightmare—she still remembers it even now, after all this time—she found herself walking around in her house, covered in blood. She would cry for help only to find that no one could hear her. So, she just stood there in her living room, white carpet turning crimson. She only dreamed that once. Other nightmares had her running away from something while others still had her sitting alone in a dark void. Don't get her wrong, she's had plenty of happy dreams too, but there's something about the nightmares that just stick with you. They invade your thoughts and whisper malicious words into your ear so that you're barely breathing and every little sound makes you jump.

Oddly enough, when she and Stiles started to get closer—when they started to confide in each other—the nightmares became less and less frightening. Maybe that was because for the first time in her life, she had someone that she could count on, someone who would pick up the phone if she called at midnight. Someone who would see her crying and tell her she looked beautiful anyways.

Someone who loved her—not the façade, but the real Lydia Martin, faults and all.

She can see him through narrowed eyes—Stiles, asleep and recovering, alive. She's smiling at that because he'll be okay. Her mind floats; she feels like she's drifting along a lazy river. What is she doing here? Why does her chest hurt? She fumbles with her hand until she reaches the source of the pain and then with a swift motion pulls out whatever it is that is stuck in her. She breathes finally and drowsiness begins to overtake her.

Why is she here again? Why is Stiles asleep? Well, surely if he is asleep, then all is well and she can rest for a bit. Her eyes fall shut.

Just for a few minutes anyway.

* * *

Stiles opens his eyes and then immediately shuts them.

The pain pooling between forehead makes him wince and with a groan, he forces himself to open his eyes yet again. He can't remember where he is or how he got here. Honestly, for the past couple of weeks, he's felt like he's been underwater unable to comprehend much. He grimaces as a wave of pain courses through him, but he pushes himself up to a sitting position. He curses softly as he lets the dizziness run its course. When the black spots finally clear, he notices the warehouse, a place he's never seen before.

"How did I—?" His voice fades as his gaze comes to rest upon her. Lydia Martin, pale as moonlight save for the crimson puddle that stains her once cream-colored blouse. A knife is in her outstretched hand and flashes of a fight surge through his brain. He had been fighting her? No . . . not him, the hooded figure from before. And Lydia—brave, determined Lydia—had found him and vowed to free him.

_I'm going to pull you back._

A flash of the knife and then it was buried within her. Burning fire surging through him as the monster left and then nothing.

Nothing but the girl he loved bleeding out on the floor.

"Lydia?" His voice is dry, like he hasn't used it for months. Maybe he hasn't; he can't tell anymore. He moves to her, muscles sore, but his brain finally responding to him and him alone. He's at her side and as his hands come to rest on her face, he's shocked at how cold she is.

Like ice. Like death.

"Lydia?" His voice cracks because no, this is not happening. No way in Hell did he come back in exchange for her sacrifice. The universe couldn't be that cruel, not after everything else he had lost. She didn't just give up her life for him; she couldn't have! "Please, Lydia." His vision blurs with tears because he can't find a pulse and there's so much blood everywhere—she must've pulled the knife; why would she do that when she knew it would kill her?—and he has no idea what he can do, how he can fix this. "Lydia!" He shakes her and her head lolls over and it's his worst nightmare come to life because he's failed.

He couldn't keep the girl he loved safe.

"Please," Her face is smeared with his bloody fingerprints and he knows how angry she'll be about that when she wakes up, but he needs her to open her eyes and say something. Call him stupid, say he's annoying—anything. "Wake up, Lydia!" He's openly sobbing now, holding her within his arms, willing for her to be okay.

But she just lies there.

And that's when the door bursts open and Alison and Scott rush in.

* * *

"Stiles?"

In the hallway of the emergency room, Mrs. McCall shoots him a concerned glance and hands him a cup of tea. He numbly takes it. The ride to the hospital was a blur. He remembers Scott and Alison, pulling Lydia from him. Alison starting CPR while Scott called an ambulance. The paramedics and the flash of their ambulance lights. His dad with the cops, talking to Scott and coming up with an official story as to what happened. His father's relieved expression and the too-tight hug, the "I almost lost you" hug that they had somehow perfected in the past couple of months. Alison jumping into the ambulance and Scott promising to follow behind her.

Lydia's heart beating.

"I should've done CPR," He mumbles, taking a shaky sip of his tea. Her blood is crusted onto his nails. It disgusts him to no end but he doesn't want to leave in case he should miss something. "I know how to. I should've—"

"It's okay, Stiles," Her warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently and offering her strength. "You've been through a lot." It's an understatement, but he just shakes his head. "You want some food?"

"No."

"You should get some rest." She eyes the bags under his eyes.

"I can't. Not yet." Not until he knows whether Lydia is going to make it or not.

"Stiles—" She's gearing up for a fight when Scott appears in the hallway. He's exhausted, Stiles can tell, but a burden has seemingly been lifted from his shoulders. He passes his mom and beelines for the chair next to his best friend.

"I've got this, Mom." Mrs. McCall nods and then allows herself to leave to check on some other patients. Scott passes him a bag of chips and Stiles opens it. He eats one, but it's flavorless. Still, he has nothing to do and his stomach, to his surprise, is quite hungry. "I . . ." Scott's voice falters. He coughs. "I thought you were gone for good." That stirs something within Stiles. He meets his best friend's gaze.

"I'm sorry, Scott."

"It wasn't you—"

"Even so, I . . ." Mercifully, Scott takes it and the two sit in comfortable silence. "How's Isaac?" He had heard a bit from Derek as he and Scott had arrived, but nothing since.

"Awake and fine." Stiles chuckles bitterly.

"Werewolf healing," He scoffs. "Too bad Lydia can't have banshee healing or something."

"She's going to be okay, Stiles." How many times had his father said that about his mother? How many times had he allowed his hopes to get up before they crashed in flames into the ground?

"I stabbed her, Scott."

"It wasn't you."

"Then," His voice broke. "Why do I have her blood on my hands?" He began to cry. It wasn't fair—in a perfect world, none of them would've deserved any of this. They were a bunch of kids, for crying out loud. Their biggest concerns should be getting a date or finding time to hang out and study. Yet, here they are—waiting to find out yet again if they will lose another member of their pack. Scott wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. It reminded Stiles of when they had been little; his mom had called it a "manly hug". They had stopped when they had gotten older, but even now, it gave him some solace.

"We're a pack, Stiles," Scott whispered. "We're going to pull through this together."

And the clock just ticked on.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__I love pack bonding. I have a few more chapters in store so I hope you'll stick around. Please review if you have a second! _


	3. Waiting

_**Author's Note: **__Glad you guys are really enjoying this! As I said, this is my first story for this show, so please forgive me if anyone seems too out of character. Enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

"_Winds in the east, mist coming in_

_Like something is brewing, about to begin. _

_Can't put my finger on what lies in store, _

_But I feel what's to happen all happened before."_

—_Colin Farrell, "Chim Chim Cher-ee (East Wind)"_

* * *

Lydia used to pretend she was a princess once.

She would read herself fairy tales—her parents were always fighting; so loud and scary—and her numerous stuffed animals would be her audience. She'd put on her sparkly, plastic tiara and put her hair in messy pigtails before wrapping a sash around her dress. She'd steal some of her mother's heels and she would parade around her room, waving gracefully to her adoring fans. _What a beautiful princess,_ they'd remark. _How wonderful is she? How blessed are we to see her?_ And Lydia would beam and graciously reply that she was the one truly honored.

Her favorite story was _Sleeping Beauty_—though now she realizes that no, she does not need a prince to come and save her, thank you very much. Still, she'd be lying if she didn't admit that she always got butterflies at that point. The valiant prince would rush to his beloved's side and with a kiss, all would be restored back to the way it was before. _My prince,_ the princess would whisper with a grin, _I dreamt about you._ Then, the prince would take her hand and they'd live happily ever after.

Yes, Lydia Martin used to believe in happily ever after. She used to believe in a love that could be eternal. All that had changed with her parent's divorce though and then there was the whole Jackson experience. To be frank, she hasn't felt that butterfly feeling since middle school.

But with Stiles . . . she knows that it could be something. Maybe not true love, but there is something there. Lydia can sense it deep within her. He's not a prince, but then again, she's no longer a princess. They are just two people—two teens thrust into a battle that they have no business being in. Their relationship is built upon secrets whispered and fleeting touches exchanged. She's saved him just as much as he's saved her.

So, maybe—just maybe—there's a chance that the two of them could forge their own happily ever after.

Lydia likes to believe in that.

* * *

"How is she?" Alison is a wreck, eyes red and puffy, mascara askew. Yet, her voice is even, her tone carefully measured. She regards Stiles with warmth, something that astounds him. How could everyone so easily push past what he had done—to Lydia, to all of them?

"Last thing we heard they were taking her to surgery." Scott manages to reply and the huntress nods her head. Shakily, she sits down on the other side of her former boyfriend. He offers a hand and she gratefully takes it. There's nothing romantic about it—just an offering of strength; something that Alison needs if she's going to make it through another vigil. "Isaac?"

"They discharged him." She runs a hand through her messy air, fingers getting stuck in a few knots. "He's perfectly healed." She laughs bitterly and then pulls her knees up onto the chair. With her free hand, she wraps an arm around them. "He's getting food." She's breaking—anyone with eyes can see that—and suddenly, Stiles is out of the chair and in front of her. "Stiles—?"

"Hit me." He orders and her expression alights with confusion.

"Stiles, what—?" Scott tries to interject, but Stiles holds up a hand for silence.

"Hit me, Alison." She shakes her head and looks away. "No, I deserve it, okay? I mean, c'mon, it was me that choked Isaac and me that stabbed Lydia, and fuck, she might die and I'm to blame—" The air is getting incredibly thin and his mind is racing a mile a minute, the words spilling out faster than he can process them, but he has to be punished for this—he needs to be punished—and since he knows Scott won't do something, maybe Alison—?

The slap is unexpected and it echoes through the hall. He meets her gaze, shocked. He places a hand to his stinging cheek.

"Stop." Alison hisses, voice deadly and utterly malicious.

"Alison—" Scott's gaze alternates between the two of them, but it's obvious that he won't be allowed to interfere.

"Stop blaming yourself." She growls, stepping into his space. "We all know you were possessed, okay? We all knew what could happen. Just like Lydia knew the risks." Her voice twinges with grief. "But she made a choice, okay? And her choice brought you back. And right now," She lowers her voice, down to almost a whisper. "You're disrespecting her choice."

"She could be dying because of me!" Stiles protests.

"Not because of you!" Alison roars. "Because of the monster that had control over you and let me tell you something, Stiles." Scott's expression grows increasingly wary as Alison's face is now only mere inches apart from Stiles'. "Lydia would die for you, just like I know that if someone walked in here and said that in exchange for your life Lydia could live, you would take that deal." A lone tear snakes its way down the huntress' cheek. "So, here's what's going to happen, okay? You are going to let go of whatever it is you blame yourself for because it wasn't your fault." He glances away. "It wasn't your fault, Stiles. Say it with me."

"It wasn't . . ." His voice falters.

"Stiles." She snaps.

"It wasn't my fault." Deep down, he knows that, he really does, but there's her blood crusted onto his fingers. There's the picture of her face and the way it twisted up with agony as his hand pushed to the knife into her. How could none of that be his fault?

"No, Stiles," She whispers. "It wasn't."

And then she pulls him into a hug.

* * *

"You doing okay?" Stiles nods his head as Isaac awkwardly attempts to cover up a sleeping Alison with his coat while not waking her up. Scott's asleep as well. Dimly, he wonders how long it's been since his best friend has gotten a decent night's rest. And Alison, who he remembers was suffering from visions of her dead aunt, how long had it been for her? "I . . . um, got some food."

"Thanks." He whispers as Isaac hands him a tin foil wrapped burger. The smell stirs hunger up within his stomach and mechanically, Stiles begins to eat. He glances sideways at the werewolf. Only a small, red mark remained around his neck, barely noticeable. Yet, Stiles could see the faint outline and knew what it was—his hand—and it sickened him to no end.

"Stiles?" He snaps out of it and meet's the werewolf's gaze. "You can get some sleep if you want. I've got watch." Indeed, one of them it seems has been awake ever since they had gotten here almost six hours ago, just in case news about Lydia should emerge.

"Are we okay?" Isaac's eyebrows rise.

"You and me?" He clarifies. Then, gesturing to his neck, "Over what? This?"

"Yes."

"We're good, Stiles." Isaac grins. "Truth be told, I'm just glad you're back."

"The whole 'me almost killing you thing' really doesn't bother you?" He asks in disbelief. The werewolf huffs a laugh.

"You couldn't strangle me even if you wanted to, Stiles. Now, you powered up by some evil supernatural demon and augmenting your strength?" He tilts his head to the side and grins. "Honestly, that's the guy I'm pissed at." He smiles softly. "But, hey, that's not you, is it?"

_I'm going to pull you back._

Lydia meant that. She knew it wasn't him hurting her. She knew. She forgave him; he could see it in his mind's eye. Lydia knew and she went to save him even though the risks were great. She had brought him back.

She had saved him more than he ever could've realized.

* * *

"Family of Lydia Martin?" Instantly, Stiles is up. The doctor—older man in a rumpled trench coat meets his gaze—and Stiles knows that look the medical professional is giving him; has seen it in this same hospital so many years ago. The doctor calmly walks over to him and Stiles can feel Alison's hand coming to rest on his shoulder, can sense Scott's presence behind him. He's not alone in this, not like last time. He's got people here to help him.

"How is she?" It astounds him that he's even able to get the sentence out, his words all tumbling over each other. The doctor clears his throat and Stiles holds his breath.

And that's when the doctor tells them of the blood loss, of the punctured lung, of how slim her chances for recovery are and how it's a miracle that she's even still alive now. Stiles can hear the truth behind the sugarcoated words though—Lydia probably wouldn't make it through the night.

She's dying.

When Stiles trusts his voice not to break, he forces his gaze to meet the doctor's.

"Can we see her?"

"Of course." He leads them through a maze of hallways and then finally, to a small room in the back. "It's best if you go one at a time." Stiles nods his head and then enters the room. She's beautiful, even like this. Her hair fans out behind her and if the lights were off, he could almost pretend that she just fell asleep after a long night of researching. She'll wake up any second now and she'll toss a pillow at him and laugh and accuse him of being a creep. Then, he'll beam and admit the feelings that he's felt since that day in the third grade.

He loves her.

But . . . she's not just sleeping. There's been no research.

She's dying, or so the doctors think. A lost cause, that's what they call her in their medical jargon. He hesitates before picking up her hand—it's so cool to the touch; she needs some more blankets—and he lets his mind be set at ease with the steady rhythm of the heart monitor.

"Lydia," He presses his lips to her knuckles and it's cheesy, but he doesn't know what to do anymore. She's leaving him, going somewhere he can't follow. He won't accept this—can't accept this. Lydia Martin can't die, not like this. "You fight, okay?" She survived rogue werewolves and becoming a banshee. This isn't how her story is supposed to end; he knows it. A girl like her, she deserves her happily ever after.

"Please, Lydia."

And the princess just sleeps on.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__It's going to get worse before it gets better, but don't panic, okay? I'm a sucker for happy endings. Please review if you have a second! Thanks. _


	4. Figure It Out

_**Author's Note: **__Can I just say that I really love this fandom? You guys have been so nice! Thanks so much! Here's the next chapter._

* * *

"_It's not supposed to hurt this way,_

_I need you, I need you, I need you,_

_Tell me, are you and me still together?_

_Tell me, do you think we could last forever?_

_Tell me, why?"_

—_Avril Lavigne, "Why"_

* * *

She's sitting in her room, idly playing with a lose thread on her comforter. The window is open; a summer breeze ruffles her hair. She's wearing a pale blue dress that hugs her figure in all the right places and for the first time in a long time, Lydia feels at peace. There's no monster to fight or research to do. There's no worrying over losing another friend. There's just her and the breeze and the warmth of the sun kissing her skin.

So, if everything is so perfect, why does she feel like she's forgetting something important? It's on the tip of her tongue; a picture tucked away in the recesses of her mind, out of her reach. What has she been doing? How did she get home? Where is her mom?

A knock on the door spurs her into action and she opens it. Alison stands before her. In a shriek of excitement, the two girls embrace, joy coursing through their veins. Lydia can't figure out why she feels this way, why there is relief mixed upon the joy. Surely, she's seen Alison recently? Hasn't she?

"What are you doing?" Alison asks her as the two settle on her bed. Perplexed, Lydia tilts her head ever so slightly to the side. Her best friend sighs softly before rising from the bed and pulling open Lydia's closest door. She rummages around for a bit before pulling out a yellow dress; the color of sunshine and the huntress holds it out for the other girl to see. "I think this one is nice."

"Yeah, I mean, it's okay—"

"Okay?" Alison echoes incredulously. "Look at the way it sparkles in the light. This one is perfect!"

"Why the sudden interest in my dresses?" Lydia ventures, taking the hanger from her friend's outstretched hand. That makes the other girl freeze in her tracks. "What?"

"Don't tell me you forgot." Alison nearly hisses, turning around, eyes wide. At Lydia's silence, the other girl sighs drawn out. "Your date?" Still nothing. "With Stiles?" At that, she perks up.

"My date with Stiles?" She mumbles, wondering why she can't remember this important plan. Had Stiles asked her out and she said yes? She must've if Alison was here and so excited. Still, the memory isn't there and that's odd, to say the least. Regardless, she's happy all the same. She likes—loves?—Stiles more than she lets on and she's pleased with this new development.

"You do remember, right?" Alison presses and Lydia nods quickly, lying. Details didn't matter, not if she was getting the date she wanted.

"Of course." Alison beams, her expression bright. It's been such a long time since they've been able to focus on something so mundane like this. There's no worry hanging over them, no fear of impending doom, no monsters to defeat, no loved one to mourn. No, for once, there is just this one normal dilemma—picking the perfect dress for a first date—and Lydia grins. How long has it been since they've had fun like this? How long has it been since she had Alison over and the two of them didn't have a conversation about werewolves or hunters?

"So, yellow dress?" Her friend questions and Lydia shakes her head, relishing the chance to finally obsess over her fashion choices again. Disappointed, Alison pouts. "Why not?" With a devilish smirk, Lydia rises from her bed and saunters over to her closet.

"I think I've got something better."

She is going to blow Stiles away tonight.

* * *

"Stiles?"

He blinks awake to see Mrs. McCall standing in the doorframe. Her expression is guarded but in her eyes, he can see the mixture of sorrow and pain swirling in them. He glances at Lydia—still asleep, still pale—and the grief crashes through him once more. Slowly, she's being pulled away from his and no matter how strong his grip is around her wrist, nothing will change. She'll still be pulled away and he'll be here.

Alone. Again.

"Lydia?" She takes a breath in and he watches it, eternally grateful for this small miracle. She's still here—still fighting—and that gives him hope. He smiles softly at her, squeezing her hand within his own. Then, to Melissa, he tells her, "She's strong, you know."

"I know." Mrs. McCall replies, shoes squeezing ever so slightly as she walks into the dimly lit room. "Stiles, you need to go home and eat something. Not to mention, sleep. And your father—"

"I can't leave her here, not when she could . . ." His voice fades away as he doesn't want to voice the horrifying possibility that she could die. She could pass away without anyone by her side, without a reason to hold on to and fight for. No, he couldn't leave her—he wouldn't leave her, consequences be damned. "I'm not going anywhere." Mrs. McCall doesn't reply; simply comes to stand by him and places a hand on her back, rubbing a comforting pattern on his back. Her presence soothes to rough edges of fear and panic that want to engulf him. She knows him, almost as well Scott and sometimes better than his own father. She trusts his judgment and that's why he knows she won't force him to leave Lydia's bedside. She won't spout nonsense about visiting hours; she won't play the tough love card or try to trick him into leaving.

She'll just stand here and offer silent strength.

"Okay," Melissa murmurs. "Okay."

And for this one moment, it's enough.

* * *

"Alison?"

"Hmmm?" She finishes the last few touches of her makeup, glancing in the mirror. Grinning at her peach lips and her tastefully done makeup, Lydia turns, the pink ruffled gown brushing against her fingertips. Her hair, gracefully curled, tickles her shoulders. She feels confident—the first time in a long time—and she's content. Her best friend beams and rises from her seat on the bed. Placing an arm around her shoulder, Alison's lips twitch upwards in happiness. "Ah, Lydia, you look beautiful."

_Well, I think you look beautiful._

Her cheeks flush, thinking of that dance, of that moment that seems so long ago, yet is actually not at all. She's changed since then—no longer blissfully ignorant in the ways of the supernatural world, but also now a person who cared about other, who let down her walls to see the real Lydia Martin, faults and all. Stiles saw her though, even back then.

Stiles always could see her.

"You like everything?" Lydia asks, desperately needing confirmation. It's been almost an eternity since she's gone out on a date—a real and proper date, not just a random flirtation. She doesn't want to screw this up.

"The dress is perfect, as is everything else." Alison assures her. Then, laughing, she adds, "Look at your cheeks! They're bright red!" Then, smirking and winking, she gently ribs Lydia in the side. "I always knew you and Stiles were going to be a couple—"

"You did not!" Lydia replies, drawn out and teasingly.

"And now here you are," She plows on, as if she hadn't been interrupted. "Getting ready to go out on your first official date."

"You sound like a proud mother!" Lydia exclaims, laughing.

"I feel like it!" Alison remarks. "I mean, I was there and I watched everything change. Now, here we are."

"Here we are." She whispers, bittersweet. Here she is, about to allow herself to become a normal teenager. Here she is, about to go out with a boy she cares for so much that it still scares her. She could be hurt—more deeply and profoundly than anything else she's faced before—and she's going to let someone see the scars that she's never let anyone seen before.

It's almost as if she's handing him a knife and—

_The dagger being thrust into her chest. The unbearable burning and pain and the coolness of the blood pouring down her shirt, seemingly endless. The dark eyes, the malicious smile and the fact it was Stiles, who was doing this to her. No, wait, not Stiles but—_

Her head pounds and she gasps a bit as the image—memory?—fades away from view. Slowly, her room comes back into view, like changing the channel on a television. She sways, vision blurring and Alison steadies her.

"Lydia!" Her best friend's voice is by her ear and why can't Lydia stand on her own knees? Why does she feel so weak all of a sudden? "Are you okay?"

"I . . ." Her heart pounds a mile a minute, but how can that be when she was just stabbed? She should be dead . . . shouldn't she? What is she getting ready for? "I think so?"

"You're pale," Alison chides softly. "Sit down." She eases her to the bed and Lydia nods her thanks, still trying to get a grip on her nerves. Alison kneels down to be in her field of view and her concerned gaze comes to rest on hers. "How do you feel?"

"Just a bit dizzy." Lydia confesses.

"You should eat something." Alison rises, clearly in the zone of a trained hunter. "I'll be right back. You just rest, okay?" She's gone, leaving Lydia on the edge of her bed. What did she see and what did it mean? What is she forgetting because she's sure she's missing something; something she can't quite place her finger on.

She's going to get to the bottom of this.

"Figure it out."

_A forest so far away. A trap around her leg and Stiles, frantically trying to save her. Figure it out, she had told him. Figure it out! _

She can do this.

Lydia Martin isn't a quitter, after all.

* * *

"She's burning up." Melissa mumbles as she places a palm against her cheek. The mother figure of the pack grimaces and then pulls out thermometer from her scrub pocket. Placing the protective cover over it, she sticks it in Lydia's ear and after a few moments, it beeps. Glancing at the monitor, she shakes her head at the number. "103."

"You can give her medicine, right?" Stiles presses because it's a fever and yeah, people can die of them technically, but that was in the old days when medicine sucked and doctors thought the way to heal people was to do stupid things.

"The doctor can, yes."

"But?" He can sense that there is one from the way her gaze is downcast.

"A fever is one of the hallmark signs of an infection after surgery." His eyes widen because infections after surgery are notoriously hard to get rid of and they took a toll on an already fragile person.

_You're one of the smartest people I know, Stiles. You don't need instructions. Figure it out. _

"What can I do?" Because there has to be something and he won't just sit by and throw in the towel just because of what the doctors say. He'll keep her safe and he'll lend her his strength for as long as he needs to.

"There's a bowl and a cloth under the sink over there." Melissa points and Stiles is already up. "Fill it up with cool water—not cold—and then start placing the cloth on her forehead and then her cheeks." The nurse moves to the doorway. "I'll be back with a doctor." Her steps echo through the hall and Stiles quickly fulfills her instructions. Coming back to rest at Lydia's side, he begins to gently apply the cloth.

"I'm going to figure this out, okay?" He whispers to her. "Besides, we're a team, right? I can't help the pack without you, you know that right?" The cloth warms too quickly and he dunks it back into the bowl. He wrings it out and then lays it on her forehead. A few drips trickle down her flamed cheeks, like tears. "Just . . . hang in there."

He's in this for the long haul; he's known that ever since he laid eyes on her in third grade. He's not going to give up this fight. He's not going to give up on her. No matter what it takes, he will fight for every extra minute he gets to spend with her and the Grim Reaper himself will have to go through him to get to her.

"Hang in there."

And the cloth burns up once again.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__Next chapter, more of the pack! And of course, more Stiles and Lydia. Please review if you have a second. Thanks! _


	5. Pieces

_**Author's Note: **__Just a reminder that this is set in a slightly alternate universe season 3B. Thanks for all the kind words! I'm glad you guys are enjoying it._

* * *

"_What's wrong with my tongue?_

_These words keep slipping away,_

_I stutter, I stumble,_

_Like I've got nothing to say."_

—_Avril Lavigne, "These Things I'll Never Say"_

* * *

"You sure you're okay?" Alison questions softly as she hands Lydia a cool glass of water. Shakily, she takes a slow sip, trying to regain her nerves. "Lydia?"

"I feel like . . ." Her voice fades. How can she explain this feeling; this curious sensation that something is wrong even though she can't recall the reason? There's no monster to fight nor is anyone hurt. Everything should be fine, yet there's this lingering fear tickling the back of her brain. "Alison, something's wrong."

"With you?" The huntress asks quickly, expression filling with concern. Her hand wraps around Lydia's, offering her strength and companionship. "Maybe we should call your mom—"

"No," Lydia dismisses, shaking her head. She sighs, her head pounding. She presses a cool hand to her burning head and tries to get a handle on whatever is going on with her. "I saw something."

"Saw something?" Her best friend echoes, brows knitting up in confusion. "What do you mean—?"

"I saw Stiles stab me."

A beat; an exhale of a shaky breath.

"What?"

"I can't explain it," The teen genius mumbles, rising from the bed and beginning to pace, her heels sinking into the carpet. "But something's wrong, Alison." She gestures to the room, to the window with the beautiful sunshine and green grass. With the summer breeze entering the room and flowers swaying in the wind, she knows something is off. It's too perfect, too pristine.

This isn't her world.

"Wrong?" Alison frowns, perplexed. "Lydia, are you sure you're feeling all right?" She walks over there and places a hand on her forehead. She grimaces. "Do you have a fever? You feel warm."

"Alison, you're not listening—" Alison just smiles tiredly at her and then pats her shoulder.

"I heard you," She replies. "It's just . . . we've all been under a lot of stress lately and you're nervous about this date—"

"You don't believe me!" Lydia exclaims, disbelieving. This is impossible. Alison has always believed her before, even when she was going crazy with her newfound powers and Peter's influence. This is wrong.

This isn't her world.

It can't be.

"Just sit down," Alison soothes. "I'm going to go downstairs and get you some medicine." With a small grin, she exits the room, leaving a bewildered Lydia in her wake.

"This can't be right."

_Her eyes blinking open to see Stiles on the warehouse floor, breathing and alive. A knife is in her hand and the blood is pooling around her, yet she smiled. He's safe. She's freed him._

With a shudder she opens her eyes only to find herself standing in her living room, sunset's rays coloring the room.

"Wait, what?" The doorbell rings and she finds herself moving towards the front door to open it. She pulls back the door and finds Stiles, standing there with a bouquet of roses.

"Hey." He greets with an easy smile and suddenly, her fears dissipate. Stiles would believe her—he always believed her—and together they could figure it out. They would get to the bottom of this world where Alison acted strange and her mother is nowhere to be seen and time passes in the snap of a finger.

"Stiles." She wraps her arms around him, feeling him stiffen for a few seconds under her before finally returning her embrace.

"H-hey," He stutters. "You okay?"

"I'm just glad you're here." She pulls back, beaming. Then, her expression sobers. "Something is wrong. Alison is acting weird and I keep seeing things—"

"Hey, hey," He soothes, entering and shutting the door behind him before placing the bouquet on the wooden coffee table. "It's okay. We'll figure this out."

"Right." She nods, more confident.

There was nothing they couldn't do if they were together.

"Now," Stiles starts and she notices the nice outfit he wears—the button down white shirt and the dark jeans—and she's feels slightly giddy. Maybe they would be going out somewhere nice tonight. "Tell me what's going on."

And that's when she begins to speak.

She never notices the way Stiles' eyes flash black occasionally whenever her gaze would drop his.

* * *

"Stiles."

"Hey, Dad." His voice is sandpaper and parched like a desert. His eyes feel like they have sand in them because of lack of sleep, but he refuses to let go of her. He won't leave her side. The Sheriff walks in, boots echoing in the room. He pulls up a chair and the two of them sit like for what seems like an eternity, the steady beeping of Lydia's heart monitor filling the silence. She's stirred a few times since the fever came on and even opened her eyes for a few minutes, but there was no recognition in those orbs he adored. She had fallen back to sleep immediately when the doctor gave her some fever reducing medicine.

"Stiles?" His father sounds so grateful, so relieved that his son has been returned to him. "Let's go."

"I can't." His father's gaze locks onto his.

"You need to," The Sheriff interjects quietly, but forceful. "Melissa says you've been here for eight hour straight, barely sleeping and not eating." Stiles blinks rapidly, trying to clear his fuzzy vision, trying to disprove this.

"I can't leave her," His voice breaks again and damn, he doesn't want to cry, not again, not in front of his dad. He wants to be strong for Lydia. He wants to pull her back, like she had done the same for him and he couldn't do that if he kept crying like this. "Cause if I leave her, she might—"

"She's strong, Stiles." His father informs him, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "And she wouldn't want you to do this to yourself."

"But if I leave—"

"Alison is outside." As if on cue, a much more put together Alison enters the room in a fresh change of clothes and with her face somewhat refreshed. She's slept, though not very easily.

"I'll look after her." It's a promise coming from Lydia's best friend. Stiles nods slowly; he understands she'll do her best, but he should still be here—

"C'mon, Stiles," His father whispers. "Let's go home, just for a few hours." He rises from the chair, slowly and he doesn't let go of her wrist until his father gently tugs on him. They shuffle out of the room, his father leading him and it's not until they get into the elevator and the doors shut does he let his gaze drop from her.

He'll be back, rested and ready.

He'll save her.

That's a promise.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **Please review if you have a second! _


	6. Sacrifice

_**Author's Note: **__Sorry for the delay between chapters. I've been super busy! Please enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

"_Tally up those points for me_

_We're settling the score."_

—_Sleeping With Sirens, "Tally It Up, Settle the Score"_

* * *

"How are you?" His father asks him as he sets a plate of pasta down before him. Stiles doesn't really want to eat, but he picks up the spoon and forces himself to take a bite. His body is shutting down—he can feel it; the way his mind is foggy and his eyes are drooping shut—and he needs to go to bed. It's not what he wants. If he had the choice, he would still be at the hospital with Lydia. But, Alison is there now and he has to trust that she'll call if anything changes.

"I'm fine." His tone is empty, devoid of any and all emotion.

"Stiles," There's a softness to the sheriff's tone, a vulnerability that he so rarely shows to anyone. In fact, it's been years since Stiles heard that particular tone. It conjures up memories of his mother hooked up to machines, of her icy hand in his and _Mommy's gone, Stiles_. It causes his son to glance up and meet his eyes. "I saw the blood on your shirt—"

"Just a few minor cuts, Dad—"

"I want to see them." And there it is, the demanding, strong voice. The voice that made even Scott occasionally stutter even though he knew his dad almost as well as Stiles did. Reluctantly, he holds out his arms and with tenderness, his father rolls up his sleeves. His eyes inspect each and every cut thoroughly before he curtly nods his head and gets up from the table. He returns a few minutes later with some antiseptic and bandages. As he begins to clean the cuts, Stiles tries not to hiss at the burning from the antiseptic.

"I'm . . ." His father swallows deeply. Stiles waits. "I'm glad you're back."

They sit there in comfortable silence, finally connecting again after such a huge ordeal. Who knew what a toll Stiles' possession took on his father? It must've been hard and horrible, judging from the dark bags under the sheriff's eyes. Yet, they managed to push past it and here they were.

"I missed you." His father beams, warm and open.

"Me too, son."

Together again.

* * *

"Alison," The huntress immediately whips her head around to the door. Mrs. McCall regards her curiously and internally, Alison chides herself for being so on edge. Not that they haven't been attacked in a hospital before—they had, plenty of times—but with Stiles back to normal there was nothing currently trying to kill them. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sorry." She mumbles. Footsteps echo in the room as Scott's mother comes to lay a land on Lydia's cheek. "Better?" Melissa rewards her with a small grin.

"Yes," She replies. "It's clearly gone down. Maybe we caught the infection just in time." Lydia's best friend allows the tiniest bit of hope to surge within her veins. They need a break and honestly, the universe owes them one. They were teenagers, after all. This shouldn't be their life right now! So, yes, Alison will allow herself to be cautiously optimistic with this bit of news because what else can she do? She won't just sit here and wait for her best friend to die. She'll believe that Lydia will make it because if she doesn't, Alison feels like she just might die of grief.

"You think she'll recover from this?"

"I have faith she will." Melissa answers quietly, though she knows with her years of medical training that the odds are against the teenager. She was stabbed, lost a lot of blood and was battling an infection. While Lydia was young and strong, all of those things combined made recovery for anyone extremely difficult.

"She's strong." Alison mumbles and Melissa nods her head. Yes, she's heard about Lydia's strength from Scott and Stiles on multiple occasions and now hearing that Lydia single handedly got rid of the monster possessing Stiles? That just reinforced her son's stories.

"My shift is over," Alison notices the purse slung around Melissa's shoulders. How long had they been here? It felt like only moments since she and Scott had burst into the warehouse and found Stiles holding Lydia's broken body. "And I need to go check in with Scott. You going to be okay?" A hand gripped her shoulder, offering her comfort and support wrapped up in love. Mrs. McCall had become their surrogate mother, even before she found out their secrets. Now, Alison appreciates it even more. It feels nice to lean on someone else for a change, someone who knows more than them, an actual adult who could actually take charge or at least attempt to.

"I'll stay with her." A soft voice speaks up and Isaac enters the room, a sheepish grin on his lips as Mrs. McCall pulls him into a hug.

"I'm glad you're doing better." The mother of their pack tells him, releasing him from her tight grip. "Well, I'm just a phone call away, if you two need anything."

"Okay, sounds good." Isaac replies quietly as he pulls up a chair beside Alison. Melissa nods her footsteps echo down the hall as they fade away. The werewolf regards Lydia with a grimace. She's so still on the bed, so pale and cold. He instinctively reaches for her hand and holds it within his own, hoping to transfer some of his heat to her. "I didn't know it was this bad."

"When Scott and I found them, it was worse." Alison mutters, blinking rapidly, trying to get rid of the tears threatening to consume her. She won't cry again. She needs to be strong and she cannot cry—

"Here." Isaac offers his arm and she leans into it. He's warm and soft and in his grasp, she lets the tears fall. "We're going to get through this." He rubs her shoulder with his hand in a soothing motion and Alison nods, willing his words to be true.

"We'll be fine." She whispers brokenly as she burrows into his shoulder, relishing the feel of him.

"We will be."

It's a promise.

* * *

"She got the spell from you, didn't she." It's not even a question and Deaton sighs softly, before placing the bowl of food down in the dog's kennel. Derek steps out of the shadows—something he seems to have mastered through the years—and the veterinarian nods his head in greeting.

"I told her there were risks." He doesn't bother to deny it, for what would the point be? "Yet, she was adamant about it." He remembers the feisty girl storming in and demanding a cure to free Stiles. She'd give anything, she told him with tears in her eyes. Teenagers, always so willing to sacrifice themselves. Still, out of all of them, she was the only one who had a remote chance to save Stiles.

"Why?" Derek growls, almost wolf like and Deaton smirks. Does he really think that that would intimidate him? He's seen more things than Derek could ever imagine. He knows more about the supernatural realm than anyone in this town. Who was he to deny Lydia a bit of that knowledge?

"She wanted to save him." The veterinarian replies calmly, picking up a pile of paperwork and placing it by his desk. He would need to fill out those forms later. "The banishment spell was a simple solution—" Derek slams his palms on the metal examination table, causing the dogs to bark and Deaton to flinch.

"Why her?" He demands. "Scott or I—"

"She's Stiles's emotional tether," He answers. "Because of that, the spell's effectiveness was strong enough to pull the nogistune from him." He frowns slightly and lets his gaze fall downwards. "I had no idea that it would manage to get the last blow in though. If I had known—"

But when he looks back up, Derek is already gone.

"Typical." He mutters bitterly before heading to his desk.

Some things never change.

* * *

"So," Stiles begins, face scrunched up in that adorably confused expression that she adores. "You're seeing images of the past?" Lydia nods. "Okay. And—this is the part that I'm not getting—it's me stabbing you?" She comes to sit next to him on the couch, nodding her head once more. "And Alison doesn't believe you?"

"She thinks its stress." She supplies.

"But you think . . . what again?" She takes a deep breath and tries to explain it in the simplest terms possible.

"I think that this," She gestures to the sunset adorned living room, to the bird chirping their last notes of the day all in harmony. "Isn't real."

"So, what then?" He challenges, still trying to grasp this. "This is an illusion of your mind?"

"Maybe," She whispers, leaning forward onto her arms so that she can rub her temples. "I don't know. Something's wrong though!" She presses a cool hand to her forehead and tries to calm her racing heart. "I just . . . maybe I'm going crazy!" She throws her hands up in defeat and immediately he pulls her to him, so that her head rests against his chest and she can hear his steady heartbeat in her ears. It anchors her.

"You're not going crazy." He assures her.

"You don't know that!" She snaps.

"I know you though," He whispers and she stiffens, because yes, if anyone knows her, it's him. He's seen through her façade and the walls around her heart to crumble. He's the person that made herself the better person she is today. "And I know you're not crazy."

"I just . . ." She sighs and his grip on her increases ever so slightly. She chuckles bitterly. "Great first date, am I right?" He laughs at that and it reverberates through his frame.

"First dates are overrated anyways." He replies easily and she wants to let this go. She wants to relax with him and pretend like nothing is going on. Why can't she just ignore this one weird thing for the sake of her mental sanity? Why couldn't she ever just allow herself to relax?

"Stiles?"

"Hmmmm?" She snakes a hand to grab his free one and holds it within her own.

"Thank you."

He just squeezes her hand a fraction tighter.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__Hopefully this chapter was a bit more upbeat than my other ones. Just remember there will be a happy ending, even if it doesn't seem like it at the moment. Sound good? Please review if you have a second! Thanks. _


	7. Devil

_**Author's Note: **__Hi again! So, after watching the latest episode, I will now officially call this story slightly AU as my version of events will clearly be different from what actually happens. Thanks for all the kind words! Glad that you're enjoying the story just as much as I like writing it!_

* * *

"_I was living in a devil town_

_Didn't know it was a devil town_

_Oh Lord, it really brings me down _

_About the devil town, about the devil town."_

—_Tony Lucca, "Devil Town"_

* * *

"You need to sleep." Kira comments softly as she takes a small bite of her sandwich. Scott's lies before him on the plate, untouched. He's in shock; he's pretty sure, as the adrenaline of everything that had occurred today was finally wearing off. Weariness and fatigue settle into his veins and he blinks, his eyes suddenly feeling like they are full of sand. The young woman across from him notices this and with a tight frown, gracefully rises from her chair. She comes to his hide and manages to grasp his hand within hers, holding it tightly. "Scott, it's okay."

"It is?" Stiles is back, but at what cost? Never, in all his wildest imaginations, had the teen werewolf thought of this scenario. His best friend is alive and back in control, but Lydia . . .

"Hey." Kira nudges him gently, a smile alighting on her ruby lips. Her presence is soothing and just having this little bit of intimacy between them calms his racing nerves. Lydia is his friend—the two of them had grown closer ever since her whole incident with Peter—and he considers her part of his pack. She's smart; who knows how many problems she's solved for him, but there's so much more to her than that. She's funny, romantic—he's caught her watching _The Notebook_ more than once after a particularly stressfully weekend—as well as fiercely protective of her friends. She's stood up to creatures that could kill her with a simple shove and she's saved his life, not to mention Stiles' during that incident at the motel. She hadn't hesitated then and laid her life on the line for them so Scott wouldn't give up on her now.

She would pull through.

She had to.

"Thanks." He manages to get out through the lump of emotion around his throat as she takes the sandwich and places it on the nearby counter. She regards him carefully, like one might regard a home repair project. Then, before he can ask her what she's thinking, she's helping him out of the chair and leading him down the hall. She stops outside his bedroom door and pushes it open.

"Get some rest." She orders softly. "I'll wait up for your mom. If I hear anything about Lydia, I'll let you know."

"You don't have to." He halfheartedly protests because she must be tired too and though she hadn't had the opportunity to get to know Lydia like everyone else, she still must be a little bit shaken by the day's events. "Kira, I can—"

"You can get some sleep before you pass out," She interjects quietly. "I'm happy to finally be helpful." Something sparks in her eyes and he relents. She presses a kiss to his cheek before finally nudging him towards the door. She waits until he lies on his bed before turning and heading back to the kitchen. The teen stares up at his ceiling and tries to think of nothing.

Images of a bloody Stiles holding Lydia's ashen body fills his mind.

"No." He screws his eyes shut and wills them away. Lydia would recover. She would get better. "She will."

He had to believe in that because if he lost another person close to him, Scott knew he would break.

* * *

"Melissa."

"Chris." She greets tiredly as she steps off the elevator and into the parking lot. Her keys jingle in her hand as she moves towards the experienced hunter. "Alison is with Lydia." He nods, then opens his mouth to say something before thinking better of it and shutting it. "Everything okay?" That's a stupid question, she thinks, considering that they were on the verge of losing someone once again. How had Scott managed to deal with this before so long?

"The nogitsune," He starts and Melissa freezes, wishing that she never had to hear that name again. The monster wearing Stiles' face brought nothing but chills up her spine. "From what I understand, Lydia was able to use a spell to banish him."

"Yes," Melissa nods her assent, overhearing that bit from Alison. "That's what I gathered." At that, the hunter shook his head and shifted his weight from side to side, almost nervous. "Chris, what is it?"

"The thing is," Alison's father starts, locking onto her gaze. "You can't banish a nogitsune. Not completely, that is." Melissa's stomach drops; her fists clench up.

"She is Stiles' emotional tether—" She wants to scream out, but it simply passes through her lips as a mere whisper.

"Which made the spell work," Chris works out. "But the spirit of the nogitsune would've . . ." His voice trails off as he finishes his train of thought in his mind. The mother stiffens because she knows what he's going to say, but desperately does not want to hear it.

"Chris." That snaps him out of it. His head snaps to attention and slowly, he drags his eyes to hers. Melissa feels her chest tighten; she can barely breathe.

"I think the nogitsune intends to kill Lydia along with itself."

And the world that Melissa McCall knew shatters around her once more.

* * *

He remembers the dance.

He remembers the way her arms felt she wrapped them around him. He remembers the way his heart skipped a beat when she smiled at him after he complimented her. He remembers the exact shade of eye shadow she wore because it brought out her eyes even more than usual. He remembers how her strawberry blonde hair curled ever so slightly and whenever she moved, it reminded him of ocean waves.

He remembers the desperation that coursed through his veins when he saw her collapse onto that field, her crimson blood mixing with the dirt beneath her. He remembers begging for her life and forfeiting his own. He remembers waiting at the hospital and the relief that came when he saw she was okay.

_I'm going to bring you back._

The picture shifts from the dance and into a dark warehouse. He remembers the knife sliding into her petite form and the expression of pain twisting up her beautiful face. He remembers waking up and seeing her not breathing—

He gasps as his eyes fly open.

In the darkness of his room, he tries to control his pounding heart and shallow breaths. He sits up slowly and tries to find some sense of inner calm. The digital clock on his nightstand informs him that it's almost six am; he's been asleep for almost ten hours and yet, he still feels exhausted.

"Stiles?" His father stands in the doorway, a haggard expression on his face. He's been up for awhile and his cellphone is clutched in his left hand. "You okay?"

"What's wrong with her?" He can sense it, deep within himself. Maybe it's due to his bond with Lydia; maybe not, but he knows that expression on his father. It's an expression that has led to nothing good so far. His father hesitates. "Dad—" The sheriff sighs before coming to stand at the edge of the bed.

"This isn't your fault." He prefaces.

"Just tell me!" He snaps. Then, softly. "Please."

"Alison's dad thinks the nogitsune is in Lydia's mind." That bites like a bullet. "And that, it intends to kill her and itself."

At that moment, Stiles is pretty sure that his heart stops beating.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__Next chapter, more action and more Lydia! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks! _


	8. Plans

_**Author's Note: **__Sorry for the delay. I was waiting to see how the show would play out. This is an "everybody lives" AU story now. I hope you enjoy reading!_

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"_They say bad things happen for a reason_

_But no wise words gonna stop the bleeding."_

—_The Script, "Breakeven"_

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"How do you feel now?" Lydia sighs, pulling absently at a strand of her hair, all thoughts of saving her perfect hairstyle out the window. She had wanted to get dressed up for Stiles, but in light of recent discoveries, she knows that a first date wasn't exactly in the cards for them. And while she would've loved to go all out tonight on her makeup and her outfit, she knows Stiles wouldn't mind if she did or not. He loves her for who she is, flaws and all. He's seen her at her absolute mess—crying, make up smearing as she laid her head against the steering wheel—and he still thought she looked beautiful.

"Better." She murmurs, as he offers his hand hesitantly and she takes it. His strength keeps her grounded and prevents her from thinking about whether she's gone crazy again. Could this be a trick from Peter? That wouldn't make much sense since he was supposed to be their ally, but—

_Stiles' face twisted up in a grotesque parody of a grin. The knife as he pressed it into her body. The blood covering the floor and the way it bubbled up as she said the banishment spell. It hadn't been Stiles, but the—_

"Lydia?" Warm, concerned eyes meet hers. "What is it?"

"The nogitsune." She breathes and it all comes streaming back—Stiles being possessed, Isaac being hurt, going to the warehouse armed with the banishment spell—

_Then, we'll die together!_

"It was the nogitsune." She whispers, the memories coming through the cracks, like water through a broken dam. She remembers it all now, every single little detail. She turns to face Stiles and with a grim realization, she comes to the conclusion that this isn't her Stiles. This wasn't even her world. It was too perfect; too fake, to be her life. This was the world she used to dream about when she found out she was a banshee, the Hallmark-esque perfection of it all. "Who are you?" Stiles, or should she say who he really is, claps slowly, a malicious smile spreading out on his lips.

"Wow, you really are as smart as they say," He applauds her, rising from her bed. She jerks out of his grasp and feels her back come to rest against her bedroom door. He chuckles, dark and sinister. "You broke my spell and figured it out."

"What did you do?" She hisses, anger being a better defense than the all-consuming fear that she feels in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't show weakness, not now, not after coming this far. She had beaten him once and she would do it again.

Lydia Martin did not give up.

Lydia Martin did not lose.

"I gave you what you wanted!" It shouts, disbelief coloring its tone. "Your fantasy world complete with the guy you're secretly in love with." He gestures to her bright room, sunlight covering nearly every inch of it. "I was going to give you a few more hours to enjoy it but . . ." The voice fades. Its gaze darkens. "Since you figured it out, we can drop the pretenses, can't we?"

"What are you talking about?" She needs a weapon or something, but her body is paralyzed. She can't seem to move. "Where are we?"

"Your subconscious." The nogitsune supplies.

"My . . . what?"

"Pay attention, Lydia," It reprimands in a false tone. "This is pretty important. See, you and I? Were in a bit of a bind." The monster smirks. "I'm dying since you banished me. But you? You can recover, but I don't think that's quite fair, do you?" It moves closer to her and she forces her gaze to be steady. She won't be intimated, not in her own mind. "If I go down, you're going down too."

"You have no power here," She growls. "This is my mind and—" A throwing star whizzes by and grazes her cheek. A small cut appears, a drop of blood rolls down her cheek.

"Wanna bet?" It challenges and Lydia suddenly realizes that this is no bluff. This monster is going to kill her in her own subconscious. She can't let that happen. Fumbling with the door behind her, she throws it open and begins to sprint down the stairs. "You can run, but you can't hide!"

She has to find a way out.

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"How can we stop this?"

They're in a conference room in the hospital that Melissa managed to commandeer. Seated around the small table, Stiles can close his eyes and picture that he and Scott are back in elementary school at a student council meeting. Things had been so simple back then—Scott and he were just two goofballs that hung out together, Lydia didn't even know he existed, and there was no mention of anything supernatural. How had his life changed so much? When did he trade in his childhood for this? The girl he loves—yes, he does love her and he has ever since the day he first met her—is slowly dying because of a force that had once possessed him.

He has to make things right.

If he loses her—

"Mrs. McCall!" The door bursts open and Isaac runs in, eyes wide. Immediately, Stiles rises from his chair, as does Melissa, and without a word, they are following the werewolf down the hall and into Lydia's room. Alison dabs furiously with a white piece of gauze at Lydia's cheek. A gash, that Stiles knows wasn't there before, continues to bleed, undeterred by the hunter's efforts. It's not a deep wound, but the sight of it still disturbs Stiles. "She just got this."

"Spontaneously." Alison adds softly. Melissa shakes her head.

"It needs stiches?" The nurse questions, trying to remain practical.

"No, I don't think so." Alison answers quietly and sure enough, the bleeding stops. "What was that?"

"The nogitsune." Stiles replies. "That's how it plans on killing her. Whatever is going on in her head—"

"Is happening to her physically." Melissa completes. "How can we stop this?"

_You're too good for instructions. You don't need them._

"I've never seen anything like this before." Alison confesses.

"There must be some way." Isaac presses. "We can't just give up."

_You can do this, Stiles._

"We'll figure it out." He whispers, taking Lydia's hand within his own and squeezing it. Whatever she was fighting, she wouldn't be alone for much longer.

It's a promise.

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_**Author's Note: **__Next chapter, the pack finds a way to help Lydia, but will it come too late? Please review if you have a second! Thanks. _


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